Terry Pratchett - Discworld 18 Maskerade

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The wind howled. The storm crackled on the mountains. Lightning

prodded the crags like an old man trying to get an elusive blackberry pip

out of his false teeth.

Among the hissing furze bushes a fire blazed, the flames driven this way

and that by the gusts.

An eldritch voice shrieked: 'When shall we... two... meet again?'

Thunder rolled.

A rather more ordinary voice said: 'What'd you go and shout that for?

You made me drop my toast in the fire.'

Nanny Ogg sat down again.

'Sorry, Esme. I was just doing it for... you know... old time's sake...

Doesn't roll off the tongue, though.'

'I'd just got it nice and brown, too.'

'Sorry.'

'Anyway, you didn't have to shout.'

'Sorry.'

'I mean, I ain't deaf. You could've just asked me in a normal voice. And

I'd have said, "Next Wednesday." '

'Sorry, Esme.'

'Just you cut me another slice.'

Nanny Ogg nodded, and turned her head. 'Magrat, cut Granny ano... oh.

Mind wandering there for a minute. I'll do it myself, shall I??

'Hah!' said Granny Weatherwax, staring into the fire.

There was no sound for a while but the roar of the wind and the sound

of Nanny Ogg cutting bread, which she did with about as much efficiency

as a man trying to chainsaw a mattress.

'I thought it'd cheer you up, coming up here,' she said after a while.

'Really.' It wasn't a question.

'Take you out of yourself, sort of thing...' Nanny went on, watching her

friend carefully.

'Mm?' said Granny, still staring moodily at the fire.

become so good at magic that there wasn t room in her head for anything

else.

They said weapons couldn't pierce her. Swords bounced off her skin.

They said you could hear her mad laughter a mile off, and of course, while

mad laughter was always part of a witch's stock-in-trade in necessary

circumstances, this was insane mad laughter, the worst kind. And she

turned people into gingerbread and had a house made of frogs. It had been

very nasty, towards the end. It always was, when a witch went bad.

Sometimes, of course, they didn't go bad. They just went... somewhere.

Granny's intellect needed something to do. She did not take kindly to

boredom. She'd take to her bed instead and send her mind out Borrowing,

inside the head of some forest creature, listening with its ears, seeing with

its eyes. That was all very well for general purposes, but she was too good

at it. She could stay away longer than anyone Nanny Ogg had ever heard

of.

One day, almost certainly, she wouldn't bother to come back... and this

was the worst time of the year, with the geese honking and rushing across

the sky every night, and the autumn air crisp and inviting. There was

something terribly tempting about that.

Nanny Ogg reckoned she knew what the cause of the problem was.

She coughed.

'Saw Magrat the other day,' she ventured, looking sidelong at Granny.

There was no reaction.

'She's looking well. Queening suits her.'

'Hmm?'

Nanny groaned inwardly. If Granny couldn't even be bothered to make a

nasty remark, then she was really missing Magrat.

Nanny Ogg had never believed it at the start, but Magrat Garlick, wet as

a sponge though she was half the time, had been dead right about one

thing.

Three was a natural number for witches.

right sort of three. The right sort of... types.

Nanny Ogg found herself embarrassed even to think about this, and this

was unusual because embarrassment normally came as naturally to Nanny

as altruism comes to a cat.

As a witch, she naturally didn't believe in any occult nonsense of any

sort. But there were one or two truths down below the bedrock of the soul

which had to be faced, and right in among them was this business of, well,

of the maiden, the mother and the... other one.

There. She'd put words around it.

Of course, it was nothing but an old superstition and belonged to the

unenlightened days when 'maiden' or 'mother' or... the other one...

encompassed every woman over the age of twelve or so, except maybe for

nine months of her life. These days, any girl bright enough to count and

sensible enough to take Nanny's advice could put off being at least one of

them for quite some time.

Even so... it was an old superstition–older than books, older than

writing–and beliefs like that were heavy weights on the rubber sheet of

human experience, tending to pull people into their orbit.

And Magrat had been married for three months. That ought to mean she

was out of the first category. At least- Nanny twitched her train of thought

on to a branch line–she probably was. Oh, surely. Young Verence had sent

off for a helpful manual. It had pictures in it, and numbered parts. Nanny

knew this because she had sneaked into the royal bedroom while visiting

one day, and had spent an instructive ten minutes drawing moustaches

and spectacles on some of the figures. Surely even Magrat and Verence

could hardly fail to... No, they must have worked it out, even though Nanny

had heard that Verence had been seen enquiring of people where he might

buy a couple of false moustaches. It'd not be long before Magrat was

eligible for the second category, even if they were both slow readers.

Of course, Granny Weatherwax made a great play of her independence

and self-reliance. But the point about that kind of stuff was that you needed

someone around to be proudly independent and self-reliant at. People who

Or else... it was going to be grey wings in the night, or the clang of the

oven door...

The manuscript fell apart as soon as Mr Goatberger picked it up.

It wasn't even on proper paper. It had been written on old sugar bags,

and the backs of envelopes, and bits of out-of-date calendar.

He grunted, and grabbed a handful of the musty pages to throw them on

the fire.

A word caught his eye.

He read it, and his eye was dragged to the end of the sentence.

Then he read to the end of the page, doubling back a few times

because he hadn't quite believed what he'd just read.

He turned the page. And then he turned back. And then he read on. At

one point he took a ruler out of his drawer and looked at it thoughtfully.

He opened his drinks cabinet. The bottle tinkled cheerfully on the edge

of the glass as he tried to pour himself a drink.

Then he stared out of the window at the Opera House on the other side

of the road. A small figure was brushing the steps.

And then he said, 'Oh, my.'

Finally he went to the door and said, 'Could you come in here, Mr

Cropper?'

His chief printer entered, clutching a sheaf of proofs. 'We're going to

have to get Mr Cripslock to engrave page 11 again,' he said mournfully.

'He's spelled "famine" with seven letters–'

'Read this,' said Goatberger.

'I was just off to lunch–'

'Read this.'

'Guild agreement says–'

'Read this and see if you still have an appetite.'

Mr Cropper sat down with bad grace and glanced at the first page.

Then he turned to the second page.

But Ive still got the Grune, June, August and Spune predictions for next

year's Almanack to–'

'Forget them. Use some old ones.'

'People'll notice.'

'They've never noticed before,' said Mr Goatberger. 'You know the drill.

Astounding Rains of Curry in Klatch, Amazing Death of the Seriph of Ee,

Plague of Wasps in Howondaland. This is a lot more important.'

He stared unseeing out of the window again.

'Considerably more important.'

And he dreamed the dream of all those who publish books, which was

to have so much gold in your pockets that you would have to employ two

people just to hold your trousers up.

The huge, be-columned, gargoyle-haunted face of Ankh-Morpork's

Opera House was there, in front of Agnes Nitt.

She stopped. At least, most of Agnes stopped. There was a lot of

Agnes. It took some time for outlying regions to come to rest.

Well, this was it. At last. She could go in, or she could go away. It was

what they called a life choice. She'd never had one of those before.

Finally, after standing still for long enough for a pigeon to consider the

perching possibilities of her huge and rather sad black floppy hat, she

climbed the steps.

A man was theoretically sweeping them. What he was in fact doing was

moving the dirt around with a broom, to give it a change of scenery and a

chance to make new friends. He was dressed in a long coat that was

slightly too small for him, and had a black beret perched incongruously on

spiky black hair.

'Excuse me,' said Agnes.

The effect was electric. He turned around, tangled one foot with the

other, and collapsed on to his broom.

Agnes's hand flew to her mouth, and then she reached down.

'Oh, I'm so sorry!'

Do you work for the Opera House? said Agnes.

'Yes miss!'

'Er, can you tell me where I have to go for the auditions?'

He looked around wildly. 'Stage-door!' he said. 'I'll show you!' The words

came out in a rush, as if he had to line them up and fire them all in one go

before they had time to wander off.

He snatched the broom out of her hands and set off down the steps and

towards the corner of the building. He had a unique stride: it looked as

though his body were being dragged forward and his legs had to flail

around underneath it, landing wherever they could find room. It wasn't so

much a walk as a collapse, indefinitely postponed.

His erratic footsteps led towards a door in the side wall. Agnes followed

them in.

just inside was a sort of shed, with one open wall and a counter

positioned so that someone standing there could watch the door. The

person behind it must have been a human being because walruses don't

wear coats. The strange man had disappeared somewhere in the gloom

beyond.

Agnes looked around desperately.

'Yes, miss?' said the walrus man. It really was an impressive

moustache, which had sapped all the growth from the rest of its owner.

'Er... I'm here for the... the auditions,' said Agnes. 'I saw a notice that

said you were auditioning–'

She gave a helpless little smile. The doorkeeper's face proclaimed that

it had seen and been unimpressed by more desperate smiles than even

Agnes could have eaten hot dinners. He produced a clipboard and a stub

of pencil.

'You got to sign here,' he said.

'Who was that...person who came in with me?'

The moustache moved, suggesting a smile was buried somewhere

below. 'Everyone knows our Walter Plinge.'

This seemed to be all the information that was likely to be imparted.

Agnes gripped the pencil.

someone who has a cool and exciting middle initial .

It hadn't worked. Lancre people were depressingly resistant to cool. She

had just been known as 'that Agnes who calls herself Perditax'.

She'd never dared tell anyone that she'd like her full name to be Perdita

X Dream. They just wouldn't understand. They'd say things like: if you think

that's the right name for you, why have you still got two shelves full of soft

toys?

Well, here she could start afresh. She was good. She knew she was

good.

Probably no hope for the Dream, though.

She was probably stuck with the Nitt.

Nanny Ogg usually went to bed early. After all, she was an old lady.

Sometimes she went to bed as early as 6 a. m.

Her breath puffed in the air as she walked through the woods. Her boots

crunched on the leaves. The wind had died away, leaving the sky wide and

clear and open for the first frost of the season, a petalnipping,

fruit-withering little scorcher that showed you why they called Nature a

mother...

A third witch.

Three witches could sort of... spread the load.

Maiden, mother and... crone. There.

The trouble was that Granny Weatherwax combined all three in one.

She was a maiden, as far as Nanny knew, and she was at least in the right

age-bracket for a crone; and, as for the third, well... cross Granny

Weatherwax on a bad day and you'd be like a blossom in the frost.

There was bound to be a candidate for the vacancy, though. There were

several young girls in Lancre who were just about the right age.

Trouble was, the young men of Lancre knew it too. Nanny wandered the

summer hayfields regularly, and had a sharp if compassionate eye and

damn' good over-the-horizon hearing. Violet Frottidge was walking out with

young Deviousness Carter, or at least doing something within ninety

thought of her? But you didn t, of course. Whenever you thought about the

young girls of Lancre, you didn't remember her. And then you said, 'Oh,

yes, her too, of course. O' course, she's got a wonderful personality. And

good hair, of course.'

She was bright, and talented. In many ways. Her voice, for one thing.

That was her power, finding its way out. And of course she also had a

wonderful personality, so there'd be not much chance of her being...

disqualified...

Well, that was settled, then. Another witch to bully and impress would

set Granny up a treat, and Agnes would be bound to thank her eventually.

Nanny Ogg was relieved. You needed at least three witches for a coven.

Two witches was just an argument.

She opened the door of her cottage and climbed the stairs to bed.

Her cat, the tom Greebo, was spread out on the eiderdown like a puddle

of grey fur. He didn't even awake as Nanny lifted him up bodily so that,

nightdress-clad, she could slide between the sheets.

Just to keep bad dreams at bay, she took a swig out of a bottle that

smelled of apples and happy braindeath. Then she pummelled her pillow,

thought 'Her... yes,' and drifted off to sleep.

Presently Greebo awoke, stretched, yawned and hopped silently to the

floor. Then the most vicious and cunning a pile of fur that ever had the

intelligence to sit on a bird table with its mouth open and a piece of toast

balanced on its nose vanished through the open window.

A few minutes later, the cockerel in the garden next door stuck up his

head to greet the bright new day and died instantly mid–'doodle-doo'.

There was a huge darkness in front of Agnes while, at the same time,

she was half-blinded by the light. Just below the edge of the stage, giant

flat candles floated in a long trough of water, producing a strong yellow

1 The people of Lancre thought that marriage was a very serious step that ought to

be done properly, so they practised quite a lot.

Off you go then... Perdita, right?

Agnes launched into the Hedgehog Song, and knew by about word

seven that it had been the wrong choice. You needed a tavern, with people

leering and thumping their mugs on the table. This big brilliant emptiness

just sucked at it and made her voice hesitant and shrill.

She stopped at the end of verse three. She could feel the blush starting

somewhere around her knees. It'd take some time to get to her face,

because it had a lot of skin to cover, but by then it'd be strawberry pink.

She could hear whispering. Words like 'timbre' emerged from the

susurration and then, she wasn't surprised to hear, came 'impressive build'.

She did, she knew, have an impressive build. So did the Opera House. She

didn't have to feel good about it.

The voice spoke up.

'You haven't had much training, have you, dear?'

'No.' Which was true. Lancre's only other singer of note was Nanny

Ogg, whose attitude to songs was purely ballistic. You just pointed your

voice at the end of the verse and went for it.

Whisper, whisper.

'Sing us a few scales, dear.'

The blush was at chest-height now, thundering across the rolling

acres...

'Scales?'

Whisper. Muffled laugh.

'Do-Re-Mi? You know, dear? Starting low? La-la-lah?'

'Oh. Yes.'

As the armies of embarrassment stormed her neckline, Agnes pitched

her voice as low as she could and went for it.

She concentrated on the notes, working her way stolidly upwards from

sea-level to mountaintop, and took no notice at the start when a chair

vibrated across the stage or, at the end, when a glass broke somewhere

and several bats fell out of the roof.

There was silence from the big emptiness, except for the thud of

another bat and, far above, a gentle tinkle of glass.

Like... Do-Mi. At the same time.

Whisper, whisper.

'Show us, lass.'

'Laaaaaa '

The people at the side of the stage were talking excitedly.

Whisper, whisper.

The voice from the darkness said: 'Now, your voice projection–'

'Oh, I can do that,' snapped Agnes. She was getting rather fed up.

'Where would you like it projected?'

'I'm sorry? We're talking about–'

Agnes ground her teeth. She was good. And she'd show them...

'To here?'

'Or there?'

'Or here?'

It wasn't that much of a trick, she thought. It could be very impressive if

you put the words in the mouth of a nearby dummy, like some of the

travelling showmen did, but you couldn't pitch it far away and still manage

to fool a whole audience.

Now that she was accustomed to the gloom she could just make out

people turning around in their seats, bewildered.

'What's your name again, dear?' The voice, which had at one point

shown traces of condescension, had a distinct beaten-up sound.

'Ag- Per... Perdita,' said Agnes. 'Perdita Nitt. Perdita X... Nitt.'

'We may have to do something about the Nitt, dear.'

Granny Weatherwax's door opened by itself.

Jarge Weaver hesitated. Of course, she were a witch. Peopled told him

this sort of thing happened.

He didn't like it. But he didn't like his back, either, especially when his

back didn't like him. It came to something when your vertebrae ganged up

on you.

He eased himself forward, grimacing, balancing himself on two sticks.

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摘要：

Thewindhowled.Thestormcrackledonthemountains.Lightningproddedthecragslikeanoldmantryingtogetanelusiveblackberrypipoutofhisfalseteeth.Amongthehissingfurzebushesafireblazed,theflamesdriventhiswayandthatbythegusts.Aneldritchvoiceshrieked:'Whenshallwe...two...meetagain?'Thunderrolled.Arathermoreordinary...

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Terry Pratchett - Discworld 18 Maskerade

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